Glimpses  Take 2
by Necchan
Summary: Four more glimpses. Three otherverses in which Jason found himself the perfect nemesis. And one were he found his other half.


**Title:** Glimpses – Take 2

**Fandom:** DCU- Batman.

**Rating:** R overall for suggestive themes.

**Genre: **

Glimpse 1: Humour, romance, a bit of sexiness?

Glimpse 2: Drama, angst, romance.

Glimpse 3: Humour and sexy times.

Glimpse 4: Fluff with a touch of something a bit more grounded – not angst, but... common sense?

**Wordcount: **3600+.

**Characters/Pairings: **Jason Todd/Tim Drake.

**Warning: **Suggestive themes, mentions of abuse and violence.

**Summary: **Three otherverses in which Jason found himself the perfect nemesis. And one where he found his other half.

* * *

><p><strong>Glimpse 1: Enter the nekojin!<strong>

Flying over the rooftops is an electrifying experience.

Red Robin's missed this.

Missed the adrenaline. The weightlessness feeling that comes with the fall, the split-second of pure terror as you blindly fire the grappling gun, not knowing whether it'll take hold; the hard yank as it finds its mark, the stretch in your muscles, the jolt, almost painful, and then you're soaring, like a bird

-like a _bat_-

and when you land, it has to be precise and perfect and noiseless, lest you injure yourself.

There's sweat pouring down his skin, under his cowl. His breath fogs in the chilly night air, and he tingles all over, tingles, _tingles_ – the strain of muscles, the pounding of his heart, his harsh breathing – it's a lot like making love, he supposes, and he does love this Siren of a City.

It's his first night out after the injury

-and the rehabilitation and physiotherapy and the special training-

and he's breathless with joy as much as with the strain. Gotham missed him as much as he missed her, it seems. She welcomes him back with open arms, unchanged and wicked, lambent with light and draped in shadows, she is the cheekiest of lovers.

But there's a new player, in town: someone pointy-eared and leather-clad, who's as fast with his whip as he is with his jabs.

Red Robin sees him claw his way out of a skylight, festooned with rubies and strings of pearls. He isn't supposed to, he knows that – he's still recovering and in probation and all that, _but_ – he leaves Selina to Bruce, and pursues her sidekick.

The thief is a minute thing, compact and lithe and moving with a grace that ought to be illegal. They play this game of rooftop tag for what feels like hours, running, flying, chasing, scuffling, trading banter and funny jibes.

When Red Robin finally catches the little thief, seizing him about the waist and pulling him back against his chest, a breathy sound like delighted laughter escapes his quarry. It takes Red Robin a moment to realize he's laughing as well.

"Got you," he says between gulps of air.

The catboy hums an affirmative, then turns and slithers against his capturer. Moving like water between Red Robin's arms, he presses up against his chest, meowing softly. He drapes his arms lazily around Red Robin's neck, moaning steady and low, like a purr, deep in his throat.

His heart pounds, a quick staccato beat, and Red Robin wonders why – why does it pound so fast, why is heat pooling low in his chest, why is his breathing speeding-up, and _why __the hell is he pulling the little catboy closer by the hips?_

The purring intensifies, a trick that makes something inside Red Robin spark with heat; and then a teasing, kittenish kiss is placed on Red Robin's lips. A quick slide of the catboy's tongue along the seam of his mouth, followed by a gentle nibble, as sharp claws tease the side of his throat, and,

"I'm _so_ _glad_ you didn't die in Ethiopia, Jason," the catboy whispers against Red Robin's skin.

The sharp spike of surprise is enough of an opening for the catboy to push him away, back-flip over to the rooftop edge and crouch there, backlighted by Gotham's many lights, cheeks dimpled and flushed red.

"I'm Stray, by the way."

"Wait—what—don't—_I'm not finished with you!_"

"Oh, I _dearly hope_ you're not." The blush burns brighter, but the smile has spread nonetheless, it has become cheeky and suggestive oh-so-pretty, and Jason pointedly refuses to feel a second spark of heat pool decidedly _lower_ than his chest when Stray bites his bottom lip with sharp little teeth.

"I look forward to another game of tag with you." He waves, diamond-tipped claws glinting in the light, and then dives over the edge.

Jason consider pursuing, but decides otherwise. He has retrieved the jewels

-stripped them off Stray without even noticing, _what the fuck_ -

and his wounds ache and his heart pounds and he thinks he needs to ask Bruce a tip or two about dealing with feisty cats, anyway.

* * *

><p><strong>Glimpse 2: The sad clown's smile is upside down<strong>

The warehouse is dark. It smells of fish and stale fruit, and the hiccuping giggles emerging from the teeming shadows only add to his unease; but Robin moves on, undeterred.

In the next warehouse over, the Joker has already been secured and zipstripped by Batman. Nighwing is right across the street, trying to seize Harley without harming her.

Robin turns off the comm – Barbara's voice comes to him, a sharp "don't!" right before he cuts the communication off. He knows she doesn't understand – none of them does, but – this is something that he needs to do. On his own terms. He can't call himself a good Robin, otherwise. He inherited the mantle and he – he wants to _earn_ it, as well. To be _worth_ of it. And this – this is _his_ mess to take care of. He can't ask the others to understand; he can just hope everything goes well and that they may, perhaps, forgive his reckless choices.

He takes another step forward. The giggles trail off, burst out again, sharp and loud, before the noise is muffled.

Finally, there's silence.

Robin swallows.

The putrid smell chokes him and his heart seems to have lodged somewhere in his throat, but he takes another step forward.

"Jester?"

He hates the crack in his voice. He _hates_ it.

An odd noise answer his call – half a giggle, half a sob – and then a shadow detaches itself from the back wall and the moves-likes-dancing into the light.

"Look what the tide brought up! My dearest songbird!"

The voice is delighted but. It's wrong. It's so wrong. It's too sharp to be a happy voice, and too broken. It's like glass crunching under your feet. It creaks and splinters and hurts.

Robin takes another step forward.

"I came for you."

Jester laughs, moves further into the light and Robin swallows. Joker had crowbarred Jester halfway to death, before deciding he'd be far more entertaining as a _son_, rather than as a _corpse_. The abuse still shows on Jester's body, even after months and years. There are scars, hidden under the skin-tight checkered suit, and he walks with a painful-looking limp. His face is covered with make-up, like a doll's – white powder for the cheeks, blood-red lipsticks on his mouth, and those eyes. Those _eyes_. Blue like lakes and rimmed heavily with kohl, they are-

_Beautiful._

Robin holds his hands out.

"Come with me."

Jester laughs – a ripple that moves down his whole body, from shoulder to feet. He rubs a hand over his face, and that's when Robin finally notices the tears.

"I can't - " his voice has lost the hideous pitch, it's soft and sane and broken with sorrow but it is his _real_ voice. Robin doesn't think he's ever heard it from this close, not even before the crowbar. "I can't come back, Robin. They - _they."_

Everything inside Robin is screaming at him to leap forward and catch the other boy in his arms, hold tight and never let go, but it's too soon, too sudden. He might chase him away, and he can't have that.

Not when he's this close to get him back.

Not when what was done to Jester _is all Robin's fault in the first place_.

"I know. What they did to you. I know. I-" say it, Robin, _say it,_ "-they hurt me too. But if you come with me, they won't ever hurt us again."

Jester looks up. His eyes are too blue. _Too blue_. They glow and they plead and the tears make them so _pretty_. It's painful.

"Ever?"

Robin's voice is solemn.

"They'll never, ever lay a hand on you again."

He reaches out. The red lipstick is smeared all over, and there are black tracks trailing down Jester's cheeks. They feel warm and flushed under Robin's hand – he can feel the heat even through the gauntlets. Jester's lips are pink and soft when Robin nibbles on them. Then comes the soft, wet nudge of his tongue and the equally-as-soft nip of his teeth, smooth hands trailing down Robin's chest and sides, trailing along the seams of his suit, and-

"...bad birdie, would you steal this little Jester from his nest?"

Jester pushes Robin away. He's clutching the remote control he slipped from Robin's belt in one hand, and there's no trace left of sanity in his voice. When he pushes the button, Robin's Red Bird comes rumbling _through _the door in the back. Jester hops on the bike, straddles the seat like it was an obscene display.

"Bu-bye Songbird. Give a kiss to your Daddybats for me, will you? We should have a nice tea-party, the six of us, Mummy Harl and Daddy J and me and you and both your daddies, yes? Yes. I'll be looking forward to that, Songbird. You dream of me when I'm gone – and try not to soil the sheets to much!"

He turns the bike around, and less than a second after, the night has swallowed him whole.

Robin grits his teeth, but doesn't move.

He was so close. _So close._

He punches the floor, again and again, pounding the concrete until he feels the joints in his fingers ache and tastes the blood flooding his mouth.

Pounding until Nightwing comes and engulfs him in his arms, until Babs's voice is warm and soft in his ear, until Batman appears, scowling down at him, imposing and statuesque but so gentle when he unclenches Robin's fist and checks the throbbing hand for damage.

"I was so close," Robin stutters.

"I know."

"I was so damn _fucking_ close."

"I know."

"I... I spoke to him."

"I know."

"He's still there. He's still _in_ there – he..."

Batman touches his head.

"_I know._"

His voice isn't soft, gentle or caring; it's clipped and cold and perfunctory, but it breaks Robin in half. He clings to his mentor, pounding onto his chest, screaming out all his rage, his guilt, his sadness.

Tim's still there, somewhere, broken and hurt and pleading for help, under the nightmare-doll façade of the Jester.

_And Jason has failed him again._

* * *

><p><strong>Glimpse 3: Pretty little flower stings like a bee<strong>

"So – there are these new drug dealers in town and – uhm – they kinda use these very rare plants to mix up a new toxin and so I – uhm – came to kinda ask you some – uhm – could you please put some clothes on?"

Narcissus –

(seriously? Like, _seriously_? Couldn't Ivy have called her sidekick something a little less – less provocative? No, wait, something less _idiotic?_ Not that the Mayapple option had been any more appealing to Robin back when they were kids, but this.

_This._)

– Narcissus stretches luxuriously on his bed of leaves, groans and mewls, and Robin looks anywhere but at that expanse of smooth, _smooth_ skin presented so shamelessly to him.

It tastes like honey and is soft like petals. Robin remembers it, and Narcissus _knows_ he remembers, because he drapes himself in a lazy sprawl, beckoning and languorous at once, and lets a pout crease his cupid's bow lips.

"Oh, so you don't like looking at my body? But _everyone_ always says it's so pretty..."

Robin snaps.

"_This "everyone" better haven't laid a single finger on you, or I swear-"_

Narcissus's grin is lazy and lovely and possibly as poisonous as his mommy's.

"Why, is my Robin jealous?"

With a groan, Robin rubs the bridge of his noise.

"Why _the fuck_ would I care if some Gotham psycho or the other is all over your little – _vines._ Narcissus. Vines. _In my comfort zone._ Remove them. _Now."_

Robin knew he shouldn't have let his guard down, but jealousy – no, wait, rewind, he means _exasperation_. Exasperation, _yes._ It does that to him. It starts sledge-hammering between his eyes, boiling through his veins like acid, and he sorts-of forgets himself when it happens.

When he comes down a little from his anger-fest, Narcissus is much too close for comfort.

His bare arms are warm and soft as they close around Robin's neck, and his hair has the scent of fruit and flower and all that delicate shit that _shouldn't _be a turn on, but it apparently is. There are vines slithering up Robin's calves, wrapping around his waist, slipping under his shirt. They held his arms apart, and when Narcissus snuggles into his chest, the vines tug and tug until Robin's arms are closed around him, holding him tight and safe.

Jason sighs, tugs back against the vines a couple of times, and once he's let free, he readjusts his hold so that Tim is tucked seamlessly against him, like two halves of a whole.

"This means you won't help with my case?"

"This means," Tim hums, licking a wet stripe along Jason's throat, "that I missed you, so we get to play while my vines go find these dealers of yours; and once you're all spent, you may go and collect them."

Jason chuckles – definitely not _moans – _and sets to ravage his boyfriend's mouth with his own.

All to speed up the case, you know.

It's not like he's _in love _with the half-plant and sort-of can't breath when they're apart, or anything.

Yeah.

_Totally._

* * *

><p><strong>Glimpse 4: Of mathematical variables.<strong>

"Iwas expecting to find you working to bring criminals in. Not _breaking them out._"

Red Robin swirls around, a grin on his face. Beside him, his companion abruptly freezes. With a quick shift, he pivots away from the approaching Bat, as though leaping clear off the building might be a better fate.

His frame – broad, muscled but lean, encased in black leather – is so tense, he's literally _vibrating_ on the spot. His gloves creak as he pumps his fists, and his jaw is locked so tightly, Tim thinks he can hear his teeth grinding together.

Without hesitation, he shifts closer to his partner,

("Eh. When you say 'partner' like that, Red Robin, you make it sounds like we're..."

"What?"

"_...nothing._"

"_What?"_

"Like you didn't just team up with me because you had no better option_.")_

and raises his chin proudly towards Batman.

"Lynx isn't a criminal," he says with a shrug. "There's the chance she's a cop, so we... we decided to let her go. It's – _complicated."_

His partner issues one of those breathless snorts that always – _always_ – precedes a comment or two that will make Tim's cheeks flame up. But the silence holds, instead. It stretches, tense like a line waiting to snap.

("Hush, you. This – this is horrible and you aren't funny in the slightest!"

"Not funny, mh? And yet, _some little Princess here_ is giggling himself breathless."

"I'm not _giggling!"_

"Aaaa~aand, _score._ You just admitted to being a princess."

"I did nothing of the sort!"

"Sure. And I figure you think your cheeks don't look like candy apples, right now?"

"Hush!"

"Not that red isn't _totally_ your colour, but-"

"_Hush, I said!_")

Batman moves a step closer, and before Tim has the chance to analyse his choice, he's already stepped between his father and his partner, effectively acting as a wall between them. The notion jars something inside Tim – it takes hold of something under his ribcage and yanks _hard_ – but he won't let them hurt each other. He won't. _He won't_.

("What are you thinking?"

"Nothing. Just – when we find Bruce, I wonder what he'll say to- woah, woah, you getting teary eyed on me, little bird?"

"_Don't be stupid._ I'm not – I _don't_ – it's just... you said _when_. _When we find Bruce._"

"Yeah, and?"

"You said _when."_

"_...and?"_

"When, and not if. It's – no one else believes me, when I say he's not dead. But you do. _You do._"

"Kid, it took you all these months to figure that out? And you're supposed to be the brainy half of the team? We're so screwed.")

Batman's eyes narrow briefly.

"I heard you have been keeping company with an outsider, while I was away -" he watches both men tense at his choice of words, and wonders - "But I was expecting you to at least introduce us."

Red Robin – Tim, the motion is much too nervous and shy to be attributed to his vigilante persona – licks his lips.

"Batman this – this is Red X."

("Red X? _RED X?_ Are you for real?"

"You _do_ need a new identity. Plus, it makes perfect sense. Red Robin and Red X."

"The Red I can't argue, but – why the X? It's like the mathematical variable!"

"That's exactly it. In mathematics, "X" can be anything. _Everything_. It has limitless potential. And so do you. You can be whatever – and _whoever_ you want. You won't be defined by your vigilante name – _you will be the one to give it a definition._"

"..."

"...you've- you've gone quiet."

"It's—limitless potential. That – that sounds so friggin' good and – and I've been anything but. Especially to you."

"Limitless potential, and limitless danger. Yes, you've got both laying inside you, I can't deny that. Which side you choose is up to you, but-"

"But?"

"You... you've been good to me. You've been good _for_ me, and-"

"Princess? You're stuttering."

"Possibly."

"Prin—_Tim_."

"Yes?"

"I – I think I will choose danger. One last time; and then I'll go with the limitless potential shit.")

Batman looks at the dark figure standing one step behind Red Robin, and takes it in with one long, measured glance – the ragged cape, the tight suit, the reinforced gauntlets and the utility belt. When he turns to glance briefly over his shoulder at Batman, the mask covering his face is painted like a skull and disfigured by a red X-shaped scar. The red lenses gleam briefly in the dark, and then the mysterious man starts and looks down at Red Robin.

Batman follows his gaze. Nothing in Tim's stance seems to indicate he has moved at all but – ah. _There._ The hand that's crept behind his back; the way the muscles in the forearm bulge are an obviously indication it's closed around something. And the tense shift in Red X's shoulders is a telling sign that that something is _his hand_.

("One last time? W-What do you mean?"

"It means – it means I'm about to do something reckless, and fuck if I can be stopped. You'll hate me for it, but Bruce's back so it's not like you're gonna stick with me now and before you go I want to – oh, fuck it."

"..."

"..."

"...y-you kissed me."

"Yeah, well, have been meaning to for a while. Was it that bad?"

"...yes.")

"He's – he's _not_ an outsider. He loves Gotham as much as we do. He did a lot for her, gave his blood and his life, and he-"

("That bad, uh? Well shit, I knew you'd hate it so – the fuck you doin' Princess? Let me go."

"No. _No._ You don't get to kiss me and then disappear. You _don't.")_

"-he was the only one who believed in me, when you were gone. The only one who didn't think I had gone crazy. I couldn't have found you without his help, he-" without even noticing, Tim's hand moves, flexes around his companion's own unresponsive fingers, squeezing gently. "He's, h_e's my partner_, Batman. I work with him, now."

Red X remains immobile for a moment. Then he stealthily manoeuvres their hands until their finger are entwined, and squeezes back. Tim breathes a silent sigh of relief, leaning back against him a small fraction. The man behind him is warm and solid and broad and scary, but so soft and comforting and familiar, too.

("You're the one who said it was bad!"

"It was bad that you made me think I was the only one feeling the attraction! It was bad that you kept me waiting so damn much! Jason you – we're partners, okay? I'm not letting you go. Not now. Not _ever. _You're stuck with me and you'd better-_"_

"Not planning on going anywhere, Princess."

"-not think of leaving me on my... – wait. Y_ou're not leaving anymore?_"

"Me? Leaving? After what you just told me? Hell, Princess, do you peg me as crazy? No, wait, _don't answer that one._")

Batman nods. A barely-there motion, quick and sharp, precise like everything about him.

"I see," he says.

And he does.

His face might be hidden. The scars might be hidden (but not those that count, those burned deep within, those he _can't_ hide, even if he were to try). And his outfit might be different, but it was never the outfit that defined him, not ever. He'd been his own hero long before he'd first donned a suit of any sort, and that never seems to change.

("This

is the _best_

day

_of_

_my life._")

"Welcome to the family," he says.

"We missed you," is implied.

It is heard, anyway.


End file.
